


Fire in the Skull

by stratumgermanitivum, whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU Different Meeting, Banter, Doctor/Patient AU, Flirting, Hannibal Keeps Him Sick, Hospital Sex, M/M, Unethical medical practice, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, Will Knows, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: “Draw a clock for me,” Hannibal said, handing over the clipboard.Will raised an eyebrow. “What?”“A clock.” Hannibal repeated. He waited for Will to take the clipboard and pen before sitting back again, and let the man draw uninterrupted. When he was done, Will snorted and handed the board back, pen balanced atop.“I’m not exactly Picasso.”The irony, Hannibal found, warmed him.A young man comes to Dr Lecter seeking answers about his headaches and loss of time. Hannibal decides to see what will happen if he doesn't help him.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 36
Kudos: 391





	Fire in the Skull

**Author's Note:**

> ...he does help him in the end but this _is_ Hannigram, so there's some mess beforehand, heh.
> 
> This was a wonderful challenge to work with [Heavymetalhannigram's](https://heavymetalhannigram.tumblr.com/post/624542629861982208/here-is-my-art-for-this-years-hannigram-reverse) beautiful art piece! We've been excited to share it since we finished writing and now here it is!

  


“Make sure to get my good side.”

Hannibal paused in his perusal of the paperwork and glanced up at the young man in the flimsy gown again. Hair wild as a storm, eyes just as bright as one, and a smile that held sharp teeth behind soft lips. And a cloying sweetness, hovering over him like a cloud of old perfume.

The reason he was here.

“I assure you, Mr. Graham, I’ll get you from every angle.”

A brief show of teeth and the young man ducked his head in an awkward little nod. Hannibal flipped back to the first page on his clipboard. They didn’t differ much in age - Will Graham was just ten years younger than Hannibal himself - nor in build, and nor, it seemed, in sense of humor.

“Just a few more questions before we set you up,” Hannibal told him, pulling a pen from his pocket and crossing one leg over the other. “An unfortunate, yet inevitable part of the medical process.”

“I’m familiar with the paperwork avalanche,” Will replied with a shrug. “Being a cop is 87% paperwork and 10% action.”

“And the other 3%?”

“Bullshitting statistics.”

Hannibal allowed a small smile to tick up the corner of his lips. “Have you been experiencing any headaches, Mr. Graham?”

Wil’s face scrunched up. “Every goddamn day,” he said. “Right this second, actually.”

“We can offer you some aspirin after the tests are complete. Any trouble sleeping? Loss of time?”

As he watched, Will’s face shuttered. His eyes dropped to his knees, and his lips pulled into a frown. “...Nightmares,” he finally said. His index finger tapped against his knee, slow, rhythmic.

That was not the end of it, Hannibal could tell. Something had gone wrong in Will Graham’s head, something he was embarrassed or ashamed of.

“You were brought in by a coworker,” Hannibal noted. “An Officer Stanton who found you disoriented and wandering downtown in your underthings.”

As he spoke, Will’s shoulders tensed up, slowly, subtly. Any other doctor might have missed it, but any other doctor wasn’t Hannibal.

“This is a safe space, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal said gently. “It’s important for me to know what’s been happening to you.”

“I thought I was here for an MRI,” Will replied. “My shrink appointment isn’t til next week.”

“Do you see a psychologist?”

The look Will gave him was enough.  _ No. Not yet. And I’m not happy about it. _

“I only need this information so I know what to look for on the scan,” Hannibal added after a while. “My job, today, is to get you through your MRI without incident, and make sure you don’t have to have another done in the near future unless absolutely necessary.”

Will released a slow breath and shook his head before shrugging. It was an almost helpless gesture, liquid and lovely, and Hannibal found himself concentrating on the way Will’s wrist turned  _ just so _ before resting on his knee again.

“Yeah, sleep’s been evading me lately.” Will chewed his lip, amended, “for the last four months or so. I don’t feel rested. I wake up covered in sweat that’s drenched the sheets down to the mattress. Sometimes I don’t wake up in bed.”

“Do you have a history of sleepwalking in the family?”

“If I do, they’ve kept quiet about it,” Will smirked, narrowing his eyes. “Never knew mom or her side at all. And dad and I didn’t exactly have a heart to heart about our mental health.”

“Did you sleepwalk as a child?”

“No.”

“Do you drink or use any drugs, recreationally or otherwise?”

“Coffee,” Will said, catching Hannibal’s eyes and holding for a moment. “Aspirin. A shot of scotch or two.”

“A week?”

“A night.”

Hannibal made a note on his pad. Will gave the clipboard a disgusted look. 

“A few sips of whiskey don’t make me an alcoholic.”

“They don’t,” Hannibal agreed, “but they can exacerbate certain conditions.”

After a moment, Will’s body relaxed and he sighed. “Right.”

Will was a fascinating man. He was defensive, almost aggressively so, and he had a spark to him that made Hannibal curious. 

He was an officer, Hannibal knew, and as beloved as a cop could be in a city full of mistrust. Hannibal himself had seen the man in passing, personally escorting injured people into the ER. He’d been on the news a few times, always giving gruff, brief answers to even the most prying questions. He was a curiosity.

It had been a long time since Hannibal had a new curiosity. 

“Draw a clock for me,” Hannibal said, handing over the clipboard.

Will raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“A clock.” Hannibal repeated. He waited for Will to take the clipboard and pen before sitting back again, and let the man draw uninterrupted. When he was done, Will snorted and handed the board back, pen balanced atop.

“I’m not exactly Picasso.”

The irony, Hannibal found, warmed him. 

The clock Will had drawn him was a mangled version of one at best - the circle not joined, numbers leaking from its middle and over the edge, tumbled together in a mess of scribbled lines. He took his time to look at it.

“The test is not that of artistic skill,” Hannibal assured him, folding the drawing into Will’s file without comment.

“Just something you do to humiliate someone before a scan?” Will asked, amused.

“Consider it a personal fascination,” Hannibal countered. “On your consent form you said you do not need sedation for the scan, is that correct?”

“I’ve been in less comfortable places,” Will shrugged. Hannibal nodded, stood. 

“Shall we?”

He led Will into the room with the MRI machine, pointing out the glass-walled side of the room that housed the computers and technicians working within. He let Will get comfortable on the board before wrapping a blood pressure cuff around one arm and taking the measurements. He clipped a little peg to Will’s finger to keep track of his heart rate.

“The machine is incredibly noisy,” Hannibal told him as he handed Will some foam ear plugs and a set of huge headphones. “This will help somewhat, and will be a way for us to communicate should you need something during the scan.”

“Like a cup of coffee?”

“Or a break.”

“We’d never get started again,” Will muttered. He laid himself out on the gurney, fiddling with his hospital gown, tugging it down around his thighs. Hannibal pushed the button to ease him in.

The noise was loud, even from the observation room, but Hannibal found it soothing. It helped him to think, as he observed Will Graham, whose brain was lit up like a Christmas tree. 

An entire hemisphere, engulfed in bright color. Hannibal could see where the infection had sprung forth, the heat gathered around one particular spot in the frontal lobe. Encephalitis, then, given the symptoms. Had Will not trusted Hannibal, it might have gone entirely unnoticed.

It still could. Left alone long enough, the infection would spread. It would overtake Will, every piece of him. Encephalitis was brutal, if left unchecked, but it was a rare treat for a completely untreated case to fall into Hannibal’s lap like this. 

Will’s voice broke into Hannibal’s reverie. “Take a few extras for my modeling portfolio.”

“I’ll make you a compilation disk,” Hannibal quipped back, finding it easy to smile when Will hummed back in answer.

The scan was never longer than twenty minutes, but it always felt like a lifetime for anyone inside the tube. Will wasn’t claustrophobic, so the process didn’t scare him, but he found he couldn’t stop thinking about the young technician - doctor? Was he a doctor? Will couldn’t remember how he’d introduced himself - and his soothing voice.

He wanted to keep talking to him.

He wanted to trust him - because he would have to trust someone eventually. Trust someone to tell them about his nightmares and the things he saw, trust someone to let them in on the secret that Will could get into the mind of any criminal and killer whose file passed his desk. Trust them to admit he was crazy, because what else could he be?

When the rattling and howling of the MRI faded to nothing and the gurney was pulled out of the halo, Will raised an eyebrow at Hannibal.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” He asked.

“I’ll analyze the results while you dress,” Hannibal replied once he’d removed Will’s headphones. “And then we will meet in my office so I can go over a preliminary diagnosis with you.”

“Wonderful,” Will sighed, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. “A thrilling conclusion to a thrilling tale.”

As Will slipped from the gurney to the cool floor, Hannibal caught his arm gently. The physical contact had Will shuddering before he could control the motion, and he gave the man an apologetic look that was only met with a smile.

“I’m afraid I have a very important question for you before I can let you get dressed again, Mr. Graham?”

Will swallowed. “Oh?”

“How do you take your coffee?”

Will took his coffee black and piping hot. Hannibal had barely released the cup into his hands before he was throwing back a large gulp that must have burned the taste buds right from his tongue.

Hannibal settled into the chair next to his, rather than the one on the other side of the desk. Will eyed him curiously over the rim of his coffee cup, not quite surprised, but hesitant. 

Hannibal had thought about it. With every step between the MRI room and his office, he had ruminated.

Will would not have been the first person Hannibal allowed to be devoured by something. Hannibal often was the one doing the devouring. And this way, he would be able to study the disease, up close and personal. He would have a front-row seat to the deterioration of Will’s mind. All he had to do was say he hadn’t spotted anything on the MRI, and then offer Will his card. 

But the man looked at him, one eyebrow raised, a challenge. There was a fire in Will Graham beyond the one that burned at his sanity, and Hannibal wanted to cultivate it.

The encephalitis wasn’t yet cruel enough to be destructive, merely exhausting, and for the time being, curiosity won out over ethics. As did blatant attraction, which Hannibal rarely allowed to take the wheel in his decision making.

He told Will that there was nothing on the scan of note that would point to a particular cause of his problems. He explained the elasticity of scientific work and interpretation of results, found amused common ground with Will in regards to that particular statement, and gave him a clean bill of health.

“And your card,” Will noted, amused, as he turned it over between his fingers.

“In case you had any questions or concerns,” Hannibal told him, expression as blank as anything. Will searched it a good few moments before snorting softly and shaking his head.

“About this scan in particular?”

“About anything at all.”

“That’s a wealth of knowledge you’re offering, doctor,” Will teased, but he kept the card. He shook Hannibal’s hand and left his office with his coat collar tucked up against his chin.

A week later, he called to ask Hannibal out for drinks.

Hannibal very rarely felt guilt, in fact he wasn’t certain he was actually capable of properly feeling it. He could express concern, interest, curiosity; sometimes he could admit that a certain decision he’d made perhaps wasn’t the most correct at the time, but he didn’t weigh himself down with guilt over it.

But just as Will Graham had brought out Hannibal’s desire, where it so rarely came through, so too did he start to bring about twinges of what Hannibal supposed were aspects of guilt.

After drinks, they had had dinner.

After dinner they had had sex.

Now, three months into their relationship, Will’s mind started to burn all the hotter. He wore his disease like a perfume, and Hannibal found himself addicted to it, burying his face in Will’s hair when he saw him, laughing low and warm against his skin that he’d missed him terribly that day. Will would shove against him before kissing Hannibal’s cheek and calling him a sap.

He was losing time, Hannibal knew, though he had yet to say it aloud. He still valued his privacy, though he was letting Hannibal crack him open, piece-by-piece. He was not yet ready to spill everything out into the open. He wanted to leave a good impression on Hannibal.

He wanted to hide how crazy he felt.

Hannibal, of course, already knew what was happening. He knew what signs to look for, he recognized the flutter of confusion when Will found himself in a room he could not remember traveling to. 

And sometimes, when he spent the night, Hannibal would wake to empty arms and still-warm sheets. He would find Will in the study, standing by a cold fireplace, or before the stove, staring blankly at the hobs. 

“Come to bed, Will.” Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will, pulling him back against his chest. Today, he’d found Will at the top of the stairs, teetering at the edge. 

“You might need to start cuffing me to the bed,” Will told him one morning over coffee, sending a sly look to Hannibal over the rim of his mug when the other tilted his head. “So I don’t kill myself attempting to scale the stairs again.”

“Just for that?”

“We can start with that.”

Hannibal had not treated Will at all since the appointment where they had met - both agreed it would be awkward at best and illegal at worst - but that didn’t mean that Will stopped seeking medical help entirely.

He knew something was wrong, even if a scan couldn’t tell him what it was, even if no medication prescribed seemed to do anything at all.

_ My MRI was clean, _ Will would tell them, and they wouldn’t question him further. Just migraines. Just headaches. Just stress.

But life was twisting and warping out of Will’s control. He could no longer keep a handle on himself. He showed up at Hannibal’s with no memory of leaving his own home. He was asleep more than he was awake, and yet still moving through the world.

Hannibal watched him so carefully, as if he could see where Will’s stitches were coming loose. He held him with gentle hands. He waited, as if Will might wake up one day and be fine, but Will was beginning to doubt he would ever be fine again.

At the four month mark, Hannibal reached out and took Will’s hand across the table. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “it’s time to get a second opinion.”

“I  _ have _ gotten a second opinion,” Will said morosely. “And a third. And a fourth.”

“I meant you should have your MRI redone.”

“You already checked,” Will reminded him. “It’s not like you to be skeptical of your own work.”

“I’ve been wrong before,” Hannibal said. “Perhaps something was blooming in you that had not grown big enough for the camera to catch.”

Will laughed humorlessly and shrugged. “You know, I won’t be mad if you leave now. I’m dead weight with whatever’s fucking with my head.”

“No.”

Will looked at him, let his eyes rest in the middle distance as Hannibal went in and out of focus before him, and squeezed his hand. He didn’t offer again, though he ached to. No one deserved to be stuck with him like this, least of all Hannibal. A man who saved lives, who took such pride in himself and all he did.

He went for another scan.

Hannibal wasn’t the doctor this time, but he asked to be present with Will’s permission. He watched the disease that had once been a spark in Will’s head ravage his brain like a forest fire now, and held his breath. The charge nurse made some calls. The doctor consulted with Hannibal on the matter of medication and possible hospitalization.

Hannibal wondered if the tension in his throat, the tightness against his pulse, was guilt. He wondered why he couldn’t swallow it down like he had every other time he’d felt it.

Will was hospitalized for a week, constantly on a drip of medication and on 24-hour monitoring in case his condition deteriorated. Most of the time, he slept. Most of that time, Hannibal watched him through the window of his hospital room.

The doctors spoke with Hannibal, asked him about the initial consultation, about Will’s health up until this point. Had he noticed anything? Had he suspected? Had he ever seen encephalitis develop so quickly and so cruelly in anyone else?

_ Yes. Yes. No, which was why you allowed it to get so bad. _

He told the doctors that no, he had no idea. He’d only been worried about his partner, only sympathized with his pain. When he was left alone, he was looking at Will, waiting for him to wake up and terrified that he wouldn’t. Because of what Hannibal did, because of how interested he’d been in  _ what could happen. _

When Will woke, at some ungodly hour of the morning, going by how dark the sky was outside and how dim the corridor beyond the window, he felt a hand squeezing his own and turned to look at Hannibal.

“M’not dead,” he muttered. It was meant to be a joke, but Hannibal’s face twisted up into something sour, something unpleasant. Will’s winced. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Will mumbled, though he was somehow wide awake. Exhaustion and alertness blended together in a twisting discomfort. 

Hannibal leaned forward, his lips brushing Will’s temple. “I worried,” he whispered, so soft that Will nearly missed it.

“You should be at home,” Will whispered back. “I’m fine. I’ll be alright. You must be exhausted.”

“I couldn’t make myself walk away.”

Will turned his head. Hannibal was so close that their lips brushed, just a moment, a breath, and then Hannibal was kissing him.

Gentleness fled out the window. Hannibal’s kiss turned desperate, needy. Will could barely keep up with the weight of his desire. 

He could only lift his arms a little, but it was permission enough, gasping when Hannibal kissed him deeper, when he leaned his weight on the bed and held himself over Will. Will groaned, smile lazy and sleepy on his face as Hannibal pulled back enough to nuzzle him instead.

“If my heart monitor pings higher than normal we’ll have a whole host of nurses here real quick,” he mumbled.

“We should be quick, then,” Hannibal whispered back. He knew he shouldn’t do this, that Will needed to be  _ still _ and  _ safe _ and  _ relaxing, _ not caught in the middle of whatever this was, whatever hormonal tide of panic had taken over Hannibal the hours before Will had woken up.

“Unethical, Doctor,” Will replied, but he hardly stopped Hannibal from dropping his hand beneath the blankets and stroking Will up. He laughed when Hannibal took the little heart monitor from Will’s finger and clipped it on to his own.

“I can control a racing heart,” Hannibal explained, and Will snorted.

“If you don’t set it off, am I doing my job correctly?”

“I don’t think you could get it wrong.” 

Hannibal muffled Will’s protest with his mouth, hot and wet and searching. Will spread his thighs, welcoming the almost-too-dry slide of Hannibal’s fingers under the thin fabric of his hospital gown. 

“Want you,” Will gasped against Hannibal’s lips. “Fuck, Hannibal, I want you so much, all the time.”

It was too much, too soon, but the noise Hannibal made was  _ sinful _ . 

“We can’t, not like this,” Hannibal said, but his hand never stilled.

“But I--”

“I’ll take care of you.” Hannibal pushed the sheet aside, his hungry gaze landing on Will’s reddened erection. Will flushed, throwing an arm across his face. “Let me take care of you.”

_ “Yessss… _ ” Will bit his lip and pressed the heel of his hand against his eye instead. He felt Hannibal’s mouth envelope him in welcome wet heat and moaned. He’d worried, of course, when he’d been given the diagnosis. He’d looked at Hannibal and seen how pale he’d gotten, how wide his eyes were. He had never seen Hannibal look like that before, he never wanted to see Hannibal look like that again.

Now, when he made himself look down, Hannibal looked content. He looked  _ starved _ as he worked Will up with his mouth, he looked so happy to be able to do this with him again.

As though WIll had gone, as though he thought he’d never see Will again.

“Oh  _ fuck, _ Hannibal,” Will whispered. “I’m gonna come… and I haven’t… with you--”

“Come,” Hannibal murmured, kissing up the side of his cock and teasing the head with the tip of his tongue. “Come for me.”

Will reached down, his free hand tangling tight in Hannibal’s hair, clinging for dear life as Hannibal took him in again. Hannibal swallowed, the tight, wet heat of his mouth almost too much to bear. Will dug one heel into the bed, gasping as his body careened over the edge.

It seemed to go on forever, or maybe it was just Will’s exhaustion dragging the time out, until the sensation left him shaking. Will hauled Hannibal up, kissing the taste from his lips, his hands almost painfully tight as he cupped Hannibal’s cheeks.

“You,” Will panted. That was all he managed, weariness already pulling at the edges of his consciousness.

“When you’re better,” Hannibal said, kissing his cheek, his temple, the corner of his eye. 

He nuzzled Will until his breathing eased, then transferred the heart monitor to his finger once more. He stayed until Will fell asleep, and then stayed a little longer, just watching over him. Then he wet some paper towels and cleaned Will gently beneath his gown, all evidence of their tryst gone.

He came back the next night, and the next, but didn’t push Will to play again, they just sat together and spoke. Sometimes Hannibal read to him, sometimes he just touched WIll’s face, glad to see he was growing less gaunt, less pale.

When Will was released, he was put on strict bedrest and strong medication, and Hannibal drove every day to Wolf Trap to bring him dinner and spoil Will’s dogs.

And, occasionally, to herd Will back into bed from whatever hobby he’d decided to indulge. 

“I feel useless,” Will complained as Hannibal tucked him back into bed. “Less than useless. At least let me go tie my flies, I can do that in the chair.”

“Bed rest means lying down,” Hannibal said. He gathered a few books and Will’s laptop, propping them all up on the other half of the bed. “I can bring you some new material, if you need it.”

Will grimaced. “Reading makes the headaches worse.”

“I can’t imagine the minutiae of fly tying is any better.”

It wasn’t. Will scowled anyway. Hannibal ignored him, fluffing his pillows and checking for fever with the back of his hand pressed to Will’s forehead. Will grabbed him by the wrist.

“There are other things I can do while I’m in bed,” he suggested, lowering his voice.

Hannibal leaned over him and kissed where his hand had rested, smiling when Will grasped his lapels and tried to drag Hannibal into bed with him. In truth, there was no harm in it; Will was on medication, and he would  _ technically _ be lying down for this, but -

“Strenuous activity may exacerbate your condition,” Hannibal argued. Will snorted and tugged harder.

“Worth it.”

Hannibal found he couldn’t resist him, when Will’s lips met his own and he smiled wider, when Will made a fussy displeased sound until Hannibal moved to straddle him in bed, the blanket still between them but barely hiding anything at all.

He still smelled divine, that fevered sweetness that drove Hannibal insane and lingered at the back of his throat when Will wasn’t at his side, or he at Will’s. There was a beauty in suffering, even when it was someone Hannibal felt so attached to. 

And Will  _ was _ beautiful, there was no denying that. His cleverness, his dark humor, the shadows he wore like a cloak, all of it called to Hannibal. All of it made him hungry.

“You won’t break me,” Will said, his voice a whisper against Hannibal’s lips.

Hannibal wanted to. He wanted to shatter Will in his hands. More than that, he wanted to put him back together, sealing all his cracks with a beautiful shimmer of gold. 

He’d very nearly done that, with the encephalitis. Another wave of not-guilt surged in his belly. 

“You’ve been sick.”

“I’ve been lonely.”

Will tugged at the sheets, welcoming Hannibal beneath them. They pressed together, Hannibal still in a sweater and slacks, Will in nothing but boxers. Hannibal kissed him again, both hands cupping his face.

Slowly the barrier of clothes between them disappeared and they were rocking together, Will’s knees drawn up and Hannibal’s elbows to the bed, Will’s shoulders pinned beneath. It wasn’t fucking, Will was too tired for fucking, but it was closeness, it was intimacy, it was sharing each other with another human being who liked what they saw.

What good would it do now if Hannibal were to tell him? What harm could a simple evasion do? A scan had picked up Will’s disease and he was on the mend, surely knowing that Hannibal had seen it months earlier would do little to settle him, would do nothing more than shatter the fragile trust they’d built together?

No, he wouldn’t tell Will that he had seen, and smelled, and felt his suffering from day one. He wouldn’t tell him. He would just put him together, now, and keep his horrors to himself, retain just a fragment of humanity more for Will.

Because Will deserved that. He deserved humanity and kindness and care. He deserved better than Hannibal, and Hannibal would strive to be better for him. Selfish, perhaps, but Hannibal couldn’t fathom letting Will go now, after everything.

* * *

In the six months they’d dated, Will had needed to cancel or rearrange plans half a dozen times. It wasn’t his fault; his job was difficult and unpredictable.

Hannibal had done it exactly once, and only because his car had broken down ten miles out of Baltimore. Will had come to pick him up anyway.

So, for Hannibal to have called Will, so apologetic, to say that he would be unable to host dinner tonight… He could understand why Will’s voice was laden with confusion.

It could not be helped, though. There had been an… incident in the basement. A snuffing out of a life that had been a bit messier than intended. The fingernail scrapes went from Hannibal’s carotid, down into his shirt, and Will would most certainly have questions. And Hannibal did not have dogs to blame the incident on.

Will would understand.

* * *

Will understood, but he did not forget. When Hannibal met him for every date, even, one memorable night, with a fever, he would remember that day. Hannibal never cancelled on him, no matter how ill or exhausted he felt.

But he’d cancelled that night. And it had lingered, in the back of his mind.

“Tuesday isn’t any good for me, perhaps Thursday?”

And then, on Wednesday, there had been a body.

“Let’s have dinner on Saturday.”

Another body on Friday.

Hannibal, immaculately dressed, smiling at Will like he was the world. Hannibal, who kept a packed pantry and served heart tartare in the same week they’d found a man with a hole carved in his chest. Will had blamed a macabre sense of humor, the first time.

He blamed his desperate need for connection the second.

The third, he’d held the phone in his hand, Hannibal’s voice on the other end asking gently if he’d heard, or the call had dropped, before hanging up. He dialled back a few moments later, apologizing for one of the dogs making him drop the phone.

He didn’t care if Hannibal believed it.

He went to dinner that weekend as he always did, dressed up, with a bottle of wine he knew Hannibal would never drink but would store in his cellar anyway, and with a fierce determination pounding in his chest where an excited flutter used to be. Because of course Will Graham wouldn’t have a normal relationship. Of course Will Graham’s boyfriend couldn’t just be a gorgeous doctor he’d flirted with during his first MRI.

When Hannibal welcomed him inside, Will set his hands to either side of Hannibal’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss, lingering and gentle. When he leaned back, it was with a sigh and with a hand up to rub his eyes beneath his glasses.

Hannibal closed the door.

“What would you have done if I’d turned out to be vegetarian?” Will asked, apropos of nothing. The question stopped Hannibal mid-motion as he considered his answer, and that pause was answer enough for Will, who just sighed deeper. “Are you feeding me people, Hannibal?”

The panic radiating off of Hannibal was palpable, Will could sense it against his skin like a burn and that… that was reassuring. That meant Hannibal  _ felt _ things, he wasn’t just a human suit with nothing inside but rage and ghosts. Will hummed, rolling his neck, and shrugged.

“The good scotch is in the study, right? I’ll pour.”

He could feel Hannibal following behind him. His footsteps were silent, but Will knew him by sense alone, could not be anything but aware when Hannibal was nearby. 

He took his preferred scotch from the cabinet, pouring a slightly more generous glass for himself. Even with the panic radiating from him, Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Will said, handing over Hannibal’s glass. Hannibal’s fingers brushed his when he took it, just a moment of burning heat. “No judging,” Will said, his mouth suddenly dry.

“You asked me an interesting question,” Hannibal said stiffly, “but then you walked here with your back to me.”

Will gestured to the chairs. “I can’t have this conversation standing.” Or sober.

They sat.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Will said finally, turning his tumbler over and over in his hands before taking a deliberate sip. “I don’t match your preferred victim profile, and you’ve never wanted to kill me.”

Hannibal blinked, sitting stiff-backed in his chair as though he were a student called out by the principal for a misdemeanor. He watched Will take another drink, emptying the tumbler, and tightened his hold on his own. He didn’t know what to say, so said nothing.

“Hurt me, maybe,” Will allowed, “but not kill me.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since you cancelled dinner,” Will admitted, his smile hooking crooked to the corner of his mouth before melting away with a sigh again. “Since the menu items on special nights started matching up to my weekly consultations.”

“Why didn’t you -”

“Tell someone?” Will shrugged. “And get the only person who gives a fuck about me put away? No, I’m too selfish for that.”

Hannibal was not prone to overt displays of emotion, but Will knew him by now. After more than half a year, Will knew every expression, every eccentricity.

Well, except the one, but still.

Will knew Hannibal well enough to know when a small smile represented a relieved, beaming grin. Hannibal hid the slight uptick of his lips behind his glass.

“How long?” Will asked.

Hannibal’s gaze left his face, landing somewhere in the middle distance. “Longer than you’ve been alive,” he said quietly.

Will frowned. “You’re only ten years older than me.”

Hannibal met his eyes again, and the pain in them was unimaginable. “The first time,” he said, “was not my fault.”

Will swallowed. One day, he would ask, but for today, he would let Hannibal guard that shadow. Hannibal wasn’t yet ready to be opened up so thoroughly. “And the second?” Will asked. 

“For revenge.”

Will nodded. “And after that?”

“It isn’t a compulsion,” Hannibal told him softly. “I can stop.”

“But you haven’t.”

“No.”

“Will you?”

Hannibal tilted his head. Will felt himself smile. No, he wouldn’t, and he wouldn’t lie about it either. That was a relief. Will would have probably walked out had Hannibal assured him he would never do such a thing again, that he would change for him, that he would  _ heal _ .

Will wasn’t a healer. He broke things. He was a broken thing.

“Have you lied to me?” Will asked him after a moment, eyes narrowing just the briefest twitch when Hannibal’s pulse ticked up just the barest bit. “Tell me what about.”

“The fire in your skull.” Hannibal’s voice felt like sandpaper as he admitted it. “Nothing else.”

Will’s inhale was sharp. In retrospect, he couldn’t bring himself to be surprised. The way Hannibal had looked at him in those first few weeks, as if he was a puzzle to be solved. Will had mistaken it for lust and the bright sheen of a new relationship. 

“You kept me sick.”

Hannibal stared down at his glass. “I allowed your disease to progress,” he admitted. “Further than I should have. I risked your health. I allowed you to reach later stages that could have easily had a lasting impact.”

The words were delivered in a flat, emotionless tone. Hannibal looked cool, collected. 

But the way he was phrasing them…

“You were the one who told me to get another MRI,” Will said. “You were experiencing regret.”

“I don’t know if I’m… capable of such feelings,” Hannibal murmured, looking up. Will just kept his eyes on him, not quite meeting Hannibal’s, not quite seeing him.

“You wanted to see what would happen.”

“Perhaps.” Hannibal admitted. “Yes.”

Will sat back, then, opening his body to Hannibal as easily as he’d offered his back to him on their way to the study. “Do you love me?” he asked.

It seemed as though Hannibal went completely still. No breath, no shudder, no movement at all. It seemed as though time itself slowed down around them at Will’s words. Will waited. He watched. For a few breaths he became what Hannibal always was: the predator wanting to see  _ what would happen. _

“Since the beginning, I have found you absolutely remarkable,” Hannibal said.

“You didn’t answer.”

“Didn’t I?”

Will’s smile came unbidden and bright, and he turned it against his folded fingers with a hum. “It speaks more to my character than yours, that I’m about to ask what’s for dinner.”

Hannibal blinked. Will’s smile widened a fraction and he sat forward.

“What’s for dinner, Hannibal?”

**Author's Note:**

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